


Ginger

by illycrium



Series: Dopey [1]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Child Abuse, Figging, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Spanking, snufkin oc - Freeform, whipping boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illycrium/pseuds/illycrium
Summary: Dopey before he is Dopey plays a game with his maste
Series: Dopey [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618504
Kudos: 4
Collections: Happyverse





	Ginger

The Mudlin is a poor student, both in willingness to learn, and temperament. He spits at his tutor, and crumples up papers, and spills the inkwell onto his tutor’s lap.

Tonnil wonders why the Mudlin does it one day, as he’s sitting across from the boy. He’s perched atop a few books but even so, he must sit up tall to reach the table. He reads and writes in silence, and the tutor pays him little mind since the Mumrik is plenty clever enough to learn on his own. 

The Mudlin however, can hardly get through a page without stammering, pausing, and going red in the face. Then he throws the book down, howling obscenities, blaming the tutor for his failures. Tonnil used to watch, but now it happens far too often to be interesting. 

“I don’t want to read!” The boy shouts, spittle flying and pages crumpled in his white-knuckled fists. “I want to go outside, now!”

He wants a great deal of things, Tonnil thinks, and rereads his own page to keep very still. Perhaps then, they will forget he’s there. 

The tutor’s voice is tired. The sun is high in the sky, and the room is baking hot. Lessons had begun at dawn, and still the Mudlin is hardly halfway through. 

“If you would sit down and finish reading, you could have left earlier.” The tutor grouses, thumbing the ruler on the table. It’s sharp and hard. “Sit down, or I will need to discipline you.”

Tonnil sinks lower into his seat, but the Mudlin’s eyes glimmer. The boy sticks his tongue out.

“Right. Tonnil.” The Mumrik gets no mercy. He’s only an animal, and the tutor can easily take his frustrations out on him. He scrambles down from his seat and patters over, holding his paws out. 

“No, no,” the tutor says, and Tonnil pauses, puzzled. “I want to nip this behavior right in the bud. Pull your trousers down, and hold your ankles.” 

Tonnil pulls his paws to his chest, clutching himself. The Mudlin is very quiet now, sitting down and watching while his pet’s shaky little paws unbutton his trousers, and he turns about. His little butt is soft and white, and the sight has the Mudlin hard in his slacks. He hides himself by placing his book on his lap. He imagines himself standing behind his pet, pulling those white cheeks apart and fucking into him. 

Bent and trembling only slightly, the Mumrik is doing his best to be brave. But a sniffle breaks through, and it pitches into a yip when a thin cane slaps across his rump.

The cane pauses, waits until he relaxes, and strikes him again, and again, and again. Every snap brings red marks to the surface, marring his pretty pale skin. Tonnil’s fingernails dig into his ankles, tears rolling quietly down his cheeks. 

“I’ll finish my reading.” The Mudlin finally acquiesces, and it is with great relief that Tonnil stiffly stands and draws his trousers back up and rubs his cheeks. 

“I should have done that much earlier.” His tutor huffs. 

The lesson is finished, and the sun is still sitting happily up in a pale, cloud-free sky, and a cool breeze rustles the branches of the ivory birch trees framing the garden beyond. Typically, the Mudlin is outside on such a day, romping with his friends, eating biscuits and sipping fizzy drinks. 

Instead, he takes Tonnil gently by the paw, and leads him to the kitchen. He takes a small knife from the drawers, and a small bit of ginger root from a basket. 

“Are we making tea?” Tonnil asks very softly, afraid of speaking too loudly and summoning his master’s ire. 

“No. It’s for a game.” The Mudlin says, and Tonnil frowns at the twisty root in his hands. 

“What kind of game has food?” 

“Lots of kinds. Come on, do you want to play?” 

He doesn’t, really. The Mudlin’s games aren’t very pleasant. 

He nods anyways, and follows the Mudlin back to his room with a stone sinking heavier in his belly with each step. 

Like with most games, Tonnil doesn’t need his pants. He drops them at the door and holds his tunic over his privates delicately, glancing over as the Mudlin begins to carve up the ginger root.

“Get on the bed, on your belly.” 

The Snufkin obeys, and takes a pillow to bury his face in. “Is it going to be a scary game?” He asks, muffled.

The Mudlin doesn’t respond. Instead, he straddles Tonnil’s thighs and spreads his cheeks. The root presses to his hole, scraping dry and rough, and Tonnil whines in discomfort. 

“A-oowuh!” 

“Shut up, stupid.” Mudlin spits, and gives the root a good slap to ensure it’s buried. 

“I don’t like this game.” Tonnil complains. He doesn’t understand why the Mudlin has put ginger in his butt. There’s no thrusting or moaning, just a piece of ginger crammed up his butt. 

“You don’t like anything, so shut up.”

Tonnil could argue otherwise. He likes plenty of things that don’t involve getting hurt. He doesn’t say anything. 

After a few moments, his anus starts to itch. He squirms a bit, frowning, but the itch soon blossoms into a burning. 

“Take it out!” Tonnil kicks his feet, “It hurts!”

By the time he stops speaking, the burn intensifies. There’s an awful, horrible heat, clawing through his body. The Mudlin stills his thrashing by pinning him with his whole body, trapping him and forcing his face into the pillow.

Scarcely able to breathe, he struggles weakly, the acute agony in his rear leaving him screaming, bawling into the pillow. 

His thighs become wet, and the Mudlin’s breathing smooths out, and he sits up. Tonnil lifts his head and gasps for air, his face a blotchy red mess of tears and snot and spit. 

“TAKE IT OUT!” the child wails, shaking fiercely. He throws his paws behind him, grasping blindly for the root to pull it out, end this horrible, awful flame burning him up.

The Mudlin laughs breathlessly, and plucks the root out. 

The relief takes time to settle in, and by the time the pain has ebbed enough for him to breathe, he’s exhausted, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and wants nothing more than to rest. 

He looks to the side, to the clock on the wall. His head is swimming. Fifteen minutes have passed. 

“Hey, Tonnil”

…

Tonnil sniffles. 

“Get up. It’s time for you to cook dinner.”


End file.
